


What the Hell

by compo67



Series: Photo-Op Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Bottom Jared, Cock Rings, Come Marking, Coming Untouched, Consensual Kink, Costume Kink, Crossdressing Kink, Domestic Bliss, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Leather Kink, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Marking, Multiple Orgasms, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Jensen, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Spanking, Timestamp, Top Jensen, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 20:29:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4113943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arriving in Vegas a day before his next convention, Jensen brings company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What the Hell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rieraclaelin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rieraclaelin/gifts).



> Songs of Inspiration for this Fic:
> 
> *What the Hell by Avril Lavigne
> 
> *Ain't That a Kick in the Head by Dean Martin
> 
> *Kiss Me by Ed Sheeran
> 
> *Not Tonight by Tegan and Sara

For a large part of Jensen’s time on Earth, his life has been dictated by schedules, appointments, and meetings. His days have been structured since he turned thirteen—if not by school and sports, then by photo shoots, marketing and publicity promotions, or worse, one-on-one interviews.

Growing up, it was drilled into Jensen that he must always, without fail, be ten minutes early to any professional engagement. And, if there’s time to nap, there’s time to work on his publicity.

However, his life since turning thirty-three? Drastically different.

Debauchery is the name of the game and Jensen is all in.

Today, he’s waking his fiancé up with a little Avril.

All his life he’s been good, and now, what the hell?

He’s been sleeping in until noon, fucking Jared at least twice a day until neither of them can move, and eating anything and everything he craves. He’s broken in the wet bar, which is a work in progress, but he can make mango margaritas on the fly without a problem.

Yesterday, it was eighty degrees and clear in Austin, Texas.

They had the windows open all over the condo.

He made a round of mango margaritas, snuck the pitcher into bed, and kissed the sunshine off of a pair of dimples. Tipsy, sticky, and sweet, they rolled around for hours, until a bath was suggested and the motion passed with no contest.

On the nightstand, Jensen’s phone plays Avril loud and clear.

La, la, la, la, la, la, la…

In bed, Jensen’s fiancé refuses to wake up.

The past few days have been their opportunity to play and mess around. Jensen goes to sleep satisfied every night and wakes up every morning to the meaning of life snoring right beside him.

Against the blue backdrop of their newly painted room, Jensen shimmies around in charcoal briefs. He’s showered, his clothes are laid out, and their suitcases are packed. John will be by in an hour to go with them to the airport. Their flight leaves at nine. And while a seven thirty start to the morning is easy for Jensen, the same cannot be said for Jared.

But that’s okay. Jared can sleep on the plane.

This weekend, they’re going to Vegas.

And it’s all Jensen’s treat.

He hasn’t answered more than three business-related phone calls in two weeks. His attention has been focused on moving the rest of Jared’s things in, hiring an interior designer, having his own stuff hauled over from Los Angeles and Miami, and making sure Jared can’t walk—or at the very least walk a little funny most days.

Fuck interviews, press releases, photo shoots, and invasive, awkward questions about his personal life from some journalist trying to hit it big. Fuck five in the morning, traveling thousands of miles away from hazel eyes and a perfectly dimpled grin, and constantly wishing he was with Jared instead of on set. He’s in for a big weekend with Vegas—one of the largest conventions he’s booked into all year—but for the moment, fuck that too.

He packed Jared’s suitcase himself. Last night, he grilled them steaks on their riverfront patio. And when they get back from Vegas, he has them signed up for Jet Ski lessons.

Jared doesn’t know that part… yet.

“Woah, woah,” Jensen sings, shaking his shoulders, wiggling in circles in front of Jared’s bedside. He dances without reserve, proudly singing every word.

Every day, their house looks more like a home. There are less boxes scattered around each room and the hallways with every passing day. Jared already has pictures up in their bedroom, above their bed, on their nightstands, and in the hallway to the bathroom. He’s working on something special for the mantle in the living room, but it’s a top secret, Jensen-isn’t-allowed-to-peek project.

It all makes Jensen ridiculously happy.

Poking the lump underneath the covers, Jensen keeps up with Avril. His hips move to the punch of the pop beat. “You say, that I’m messin’ with your head, boy, I like messin’ in your bed. Yeah. I ain’t messin’ with your head when I’m messin’ with you in…!”

Jensen dives backwards.

He launches himself directly onto Jared.

Because, hey, what the hell?

 

Of all the conventions throughout the year, Las Vegas remains Jensen’s favorite.

It’s even better this year.

He flies over the Vegas Strip with the most gorgeous creature ever to grace this earth. Unlike so many of his recent trips, wedged closed beside him is six feet two of all-American boy next door beauty. And Jared has no idea—none at all—how many heads he turns on a daily basis everywhere he goes. He’s got no clue about the infectious nature of his smile, the catchy breeze of his laugh, or the mega-watt power behind his striking hazel eyes.

And good Lord, who could forget that ass?

Jensen has a tendency to forget that he’s in polite company whenever Jared is wearing a certain pair of jeans. Or any jeans, really. It’s difficult, Jensen maintains whenever he’s accused of squeezing a little too hard, to keep his hands to himself when Jared is near.

Above the Strip, Jensen drinks in Jared’s expressions of wonder and awe.

Vegas can be overwhelming. However, for the time being, it waits for them at a distance. Seated in their private jet, Jensen reaches over, brushes away chestnut bangs, and cups Jared’s chin.

They’re here for three days of complete wickedness and absolute sin. He’s going to corrupt his fiancé in forty-eight hours by indulging him in pure, first-class gluttony, making this a weekend they’ll look back on and grin about.

“Ready?” Jensen asks, his mouth mere inches away from where it’s meant to be.

“Ready,” Jared answers back. He bumps their knees together and Jensen’s heart skips a beat.

Thousands of feet above the glittering Vegas Strip, Jensen forgets all about where his hands are supposed to be and any mention of polite company.

 

Money talks.

And when Jensen needs to speak it, he’s fluent.

No one thrives in Hollywood without understanding that money makes all things possible. Behind the money are grueling sixteen hour days, isolation from family and friends, and iron-clad contracts as thick as bricks dictating exactly when and how Jensen can breathe.

So this weekend is one giant “fuck you” to his last movie.

Climbing down the steps of the jet, Jensen hears the first of many gasps from his fiancé.

A cobalt blue Rolls Royce Ghost stretch limo glides onto the runway.

“Oh my god.” Jared stumbles on the last step. “Holy… Jen?!” He turns around, shell-shocked, and places his hands on Jensen’s shoulders in disbelief. “Jen, that’s a… it’s a… oh my god.”

The limo is at their disposal for the next three days.

And like the Dean Martin song stuck in Jensen’s head, it’s just the beginning.

When Jensen splurges, he means it. There’s sunshine enough to spread. Every step of the way from the airport to the hotel, he couldn’t feel any better. Check-in is a private entrance with no lines, no questions, and best of all, no paparazzi.

Aria didn’t spare a dime when building its penthouse villas. Jensen told Carrie to book them something nice. At the Aria, nice means a 7,000 square foot villa at the Vegas price of only $8,000 per night. Connections from one major studio and the convention company comp’ed him one night; the rest is the reward of his sixteen hour days.

Modern, sumptuous, and utterly luxurious, their home-base for the next three days stretches out over two stories and three rooms. Jared gasps two steps into the villa. Even Jensen is floored by the opening view: a sweeping, spiral staircase in the center of everything. The immensity of the space is daunting. Floor to ceiling windows grace them with a magnificent view of Vegas. They hover over the Monte Carlo, tower near the Mandalay Bay, and overshadow the street below. Dark stone and granite lend tranquility to the prodigious view.

“There’s a full kitchen somewhere on this floor,” Jensen reads aloud from the email Carrie sent him yesterday. “We’ve got a private spa room, fitness center, two wet bars, and five his and hers bathrooms.”

Jared stands, immobile, clinging to his backpack, in the center of the living room. His eyes couldn’t get any wider.

Trying not to smile, Jensen bumps their shoulders together.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll take the hers bathroom.”

Against the literally breathtaking, panoramic skyline, all Jared can do is punch Jensen in the shoulder.

 

The Vegas Convention hosts three thousand guests and anywhere from fifty to seventy-five actors over a span of two days and one night of endless partying. Saturday sees most of the headlining talent take stage. Panels, autographs, photo-ops, interviews, and special screenings are all opportunities for both guests and talent throughout the weekend.

This year, Jensen is here on behalf of the studio from his last movie and the television studio where both he and Matt have contracts. The movie takes precedence for Jensen since he’s the lead, but if he’s being honest, he is more excited about seeing and spending time with the television cast and crew.

However, anything convention related is completely out of his mind at the moment.

Time waits for no one—not even those adjusting to 7,000 square feet of privacy and luxury. Jensen calls for the Royce and within ten minutes, they’re at the Bellagio being greeted by Isla, their personal shopper.

Jensen gives her one constraint and one constraint only: they have dinner reservations at six.

It’s one o’clock and Isla is a professional.

Jared tries to protest, but Jensen holds him up to his promise—this is Jensen’s treat. All of it. And while Jensen loves it Jared borrows his clothes, Jared deserves a wardrobe of his own. He can continue to shop at Target and H&M all he wants, but his professional clothes are sorely lacking. Few things in life cause more joy to Jensen than picking out new suits, especially for Jared.

Isla understands this joy. She takes them to Armani first.

If this were a movie, Jensen knows that this would be the fashion montage.

Armani, Capri, Dior, Gucci, Hermes, Platino, and Prada.

Credit cards or cash are not involved at any store. Carrie worked with Isla to get Jensen his own personal account at the Bellagio two years ago. Now, he actually gets to use it, guiding his stunned fiancé through the private walkway from Dior to Platino.

“How many suits do I need? Jen, this is too much.”

“A man needs at least three essential suits, sweetheart.”

“And where exactly am I wearing these suits to?”

Hand on the small of Jared’s back, Jensen grins. “Plenty of places. Job interviews, professional engagements, board meetings, PR events for the Center…”

The appearance of a brilliant navy suit causes the derailment of his argument.

Truly an angel sent from the Bellagio heavens, Isla subtly suggests that while Jared’s being fitted here, Jensen could also browse. Browsing sounds good. There’s no commitment there. He doesn’t have to buy this suit, because he’s here to spoil Jared. But if it so happens that this particular fabric and cut looks good on him, then who is he to poo-poo such craftsmanship?

Someone mentions that it can be tailored to him within twenty-four hours.

Someone else chimes in that they have an entire new set of ties just released for the summer. And over here are handmade shirts made out of lightweight material, truly essential additions to summertime wardrobes.

Even better than all of this put together times ten is the simple, flashing smile Jared gives upon seeing a trim, modern cut, light gray suit.

Eyes locked, Jared asks, “Can I try this one? Please?”

In a place like this, the mere expression of interest means three people are setting up a dressing room, getting out measuring tape, and asking if either of them would like a cappuccino or mineral water.

This is just the beginning.

Jensen knows that his life is beauty-ful.

Mainly because when he kisses Jared on the cheek before he’s whisked away to try on the marvelous gray suit, Jared kisses him back.

Now, ain’t _that_ a kick in the head.

 

Isla works a miracle.

Not only does she have them done by six, she also manages to create a decent start to Jared’s professional wardrobe without overwhelming him. It helps that she has most of what they’ve purchased sent directly to Austin, where the clothes will arrive a day after them. Tailors at Armani and Platino need more time to finish suits for them. Jensen adds generous tips for them and Isla.

Dressed in new suits, shoes, and sunglasses, Jared and Jensen climb back into the Ghost.

Not five minutes later, they glide to a stop at N9NE.

Jensen exits the car first and holds his hand out for Jared, ignoring the small cluster of paparazzi behind him. Security holds them at bay, but Jensen can tell that their presence is enough to make Jared nervous. He grips Jared’s hand and gives a squeeze. Standing side by side for a moment, Jensen slips his arm around a familiar waist. He looks Jared up and down.

How lucky can one guy be?

Once inside the cool, modern restaurant, their first night in Vegas continues without a hitch.

The hostess seats them in a private booth. Danny, their server, brings out three bottles of wine for Jensen and Jared to choose from, plus a bottle of champagne—all courtesy of management.

With his love, his wine, and his bone-in New York sirloin, Jensen kicks back.

He thinks about their king-sized bed back home and in their villa.

From the looks of it, Jared seems to be thinking of the same thing.

Every bite of food is decadent, every sip of wine is divine, and every glance over at Jared is devious. By dessert, Jared is rosy-cheeked and quiet, fidgeting in his seat. Two glasses of champagne later and Jensen can barely feel the ground anymore.

However, as they leave N9NE, with his hand over the small of Jared’s back, so close to groping what he’s after, Jensen can certainly feel his cock respond to these thoughts.

About to mention to Jared how much he’d love to pay more attention to that spa room in their suite, his phone rings. The Ghost rolls up and he holds the door open for Jared, ignoring the buzz in his pocket. Settled inside, Jensen sinks into the pleasant, soothing sound of Jared’s voice. There’s conversation about the restaurant, how the new suit fits, and the smooth, pristine Ghost.

 _Bzz bzz bzz_.

Oh, fuck no.

 _Bzz bzz bzz_.

No. Absolutely—

“Jen, just answer it.” Jared elbows him in the ribs, which is dangerous, because Jensen could explode since he’s full from steak and wine.

He grumbles and pouts his reply into Jared’s cheek. “No. Don’t wanna.”

“They’re gonna keep calling.”

“Nuh uh.”

 _Bzz bzz bzz_.

Jared snorts, playfully pushing Jensen off of him, satisfied from being right.

With a heavy, exaggerated sigh, Jensen answers his phone. He places it on speakerphone so Jared can also hear what’s about to happen. Not two seconds into the call and he’s holding the phone far away from himself. Wherever Carrie is, she’s drowned out by booming pop music, attempting to scream her message. For a moment, Jensen worries that maybe she needs help, maybe she’s stranded somewhere in Los Angeles, her usual base of operations.

However, the second he hears the word “producer” he knows what this is.

“Carrie, not tonight.” Jared’s hand is on his knee. “I didn’t fly in a day early for that.”

“I know, I’m sorry, but his assistant and PR team have been at me all afternoon and I just think… damn, that’s them again. I just think you should make an appearance. You don’t have to stay. Fifteen minutes.”

This is a losing battle. Carrie is his assistant, not his manager or publicist, but he knows she’s right. Abe Morton is too big of a name in Vegas and Hollywood to turn down. He played a large part in getting Jensen twenty-seven percent of all DVD sales from two major studios. Business instinct nags at him, even with Jared’s fingertips tracing circles over his left knee, brushing against the fine fabric of his new suit.

Jared pats Jensen’s knee and gives it a squeeze. That’s the sign.

“We’ll go,” Jensen concedes, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Fifteen minutes.”

Carrie shifts her phone around, cacophony all around her. “Wait, Jensen, is Jared with you?”

“Of course he is.”

“…then he can’t go. Abe’s hosting at Caesar’s Palace.”

“Then I’m not…”

“I’m not going,” Jared cuts in. “I’ll wait at the Aria. Just call the car when you need it.”

“But, Jay…”

Another gentle squeeze to his knee. “Trust me, this works out better.” Jared leans in a little closer to speak out of range from the phone. “Gives me a chance to set up a few things for tonight.”

Jensen confirms with Carrie that he’ll swing through Abe’s party.

The sooner he gets it over with, the sooner he can find out what exactly Jared has been planning.

 

Casino parties are fucking obnoxious.

Everything is too bright, too flashy, and ten times louder than necessary.

Abe Morton loves all things bright, flashy, and loud.

Through a private entrance, Jensen walks into Dionysian chaos. This is Abe’s personal floor within Caesar’s Palace—his own hedonistic hideaway draped in gold, silver, and regal violet. The layout is simple enough. Jensen has been to countless parties like this. There are no less than five bars, one sushi station, and a hookah lounge in the corner. A small bank of slots is available, but the real emphasis is on the craps table. Craps brings people together, huddled at the edge of the large, ornate, gold-leaf table. It provides a perfect perch for Abe to be the center of attention.

Not a small man, Abe maintains a boisterous presence in any room at any time. Tonight, he’s rolling dice with two women on either side of him. Abe has never married; Jensen has always felt that to be a wise decision on Abe’s part.

Within seconds of Jensen’s arrival, he is offered champagne, whiskey, or cognac. Right after he asks for a whiskey straight, he is noticed. Unfortunately, it isn’t Abe who hunts him down.

The schmoozing begins.

Jensen prays for his whiskey to return strong and true.

Working up his smile, he greets the Louisa sisters one by one, remembering all three of their names because they have been at every major business party for the past five years, all identically dressed. Tonight’s outfit consists of red polka dot dresses with bright red tulle and massive, feathered white hats. He swaps small talk for two minutes and moves on, excusing himself as politely and seamlessly as possible. Half of networking involves knowing when and how to bail.

Whatever whiskey is in his drink he downs with a satisfying burn.

In his new navy suit, Jensen works his way through crowds of Vegas VIP.

Hello there, hi here, how you been over there…

He deflects what he needs to—invitations to more parties, inquiries about Jared, and suggestions that he might want to stay a little longer—and puts his experience to good use. He’s got Jared waiting back at the villa. That’s his end goal and he’s sticking to it. Smile, shake hands, bring up small details, and bow out.

“Lauren, good to see you!”

“Hey, Jordan, man, where’ve you been? Good to see you here.”

“Colin, hey, what’ve you been up to?”

“Oh, Crystal, howdy. Tell Vince I said hi, hope he’s good.”

“Well, if it ain’t Lila. Stay out of trouble, you hear?”

“Taylor—thanks for the wedding invite. Congrats, man. Yeah, call me, I’m not too far now. Austin. Great, we’ll set something up. Nah, no date yet, but keep checkin’.”

“June, you look beautiful. Oh, thank you, thanks.”

“Hey Jon, crazy right? Yeah, thanks man.”

Fifteen minutes are up. He’s done his rounds, taken pictures with a few people, and declined a second whiskey. He could have another, but he shouldn’t.

All that’s left is to say hi to Abe, let him get back to his craps table, and give them all the Vegas slip.

“You’re planning on sneaking out already? Guess you haven’t changed much.”

Fuck.

Jensen turns to face the source of that accusation.

Drew stands three feet away, holding a glass of something dark and bitter—just like his personality. Dressed in a sharp, powder blue suit, and sporting a bright green tie, Drew looks at Jensen from behind a pair of thick, fake, black glasses.

He cut his blond hair, though that’s not entirely news to Jensen. Drew was out with some Mean Girls not long ago and the paparazzi snapped some pictures of their night on the town. The only reason Jensen knows anything about this all is because he was featured in the same issue, as part of a “Celebrities Do Real People Things” article. Cameras got him picking up paint from Home Depot; Carrie pointed the issue out to him as a sign of his return to normal life.

Sighing, Jensen squares his shoulders. “Hey, great to see you. You look rested.”

There are zingers there, hidden underneath a friendly tone. He doesn’t address Drew by his name like he did to others and looking rested in Vegas means something else entirely different.

Lips pursed, Drew gives one short nod. “And you look bloated. Still drinking beer off set, are we? Happy Birthday, by the way. Did you go to Disney World?”

The remark about his weight, he expects, because that’s typical Drew. But Disney World confuses him. “What?”

“Disney World,” Drew repeats, taking a sip of whiskey. “The only place your fiancé is old enough to get into. Really, Jen, it’s no use insulting you if you’re too slow to realize it’s happening.”

This is the scourge of Drew, who never got over their three month fling a year and a half ago. Jensen didn’t want to make things serious or official; Drew was ready to move in. Six months after their last date and Jensen met someone who will suffer through hundreds of late-night reruns of _The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly_.

Someone who gives him unconditional hugs and squeezes to his knee.

Someone who paints rooms in white undershirts and these skimpy denim shorts, signing along to treasured Garth Brooks CDs.

“Oh,” Jensen laughs, hand to his mouth, “did my face go all dopey just now?” He breathes in deep, shoulders relaxed, and shakes his head. “Sorry, I was thinkin’ about Jay again. Do you mind repeating what you said—from the top, that’d be great.”

Unlike other people, Drew isn’t put off by deflection or insults. He sees them as a challenge. Raising his glass to his lips, he murmurs over the rim, confident cobalt eyes locked on Jensen.

“Cut the crap, Jensen.” There’s an inch of space between them. “I _know_ you. And you know my room number—707.”

The push and pull between Jensen and Drew was, at one point, electric. But it was volatile, negative, and unpredictable too. The chemistry there was based on piercing quips and slights intended to chip away at the other person first. They’d end up having angry sex and afterwards, one of them would storm out, thinking that they could do better. That happened again and again until Jensen knew he could do better.

He deserves his current relationship as much as his partner does.

Ain’t _that_ a kick in the head.

Any more ammunition that Jensen can think of is set aside. He smiles wide and raises his hands.

“Naw, honey, I’m good.”

Drew’s gonna make and break someone’s night—but it won’t be Jensen’s.

He doesn’t bother saying another word. It’s easy enough to turn and walk away, towards Abe and the last superficial conversation he has to have before heading back to Jared.

His baby’s got all his love.

 

Forty-five minutes after his arrival, Jensen leaves the party, loosening his tie and running down to meet the Ghost. He picks up his feet, stretches his legs, and flies down the staircase.

At the landing, excited and breathless, he receives two texts.

The Ghost can’t drive fast enough.

 

_Knock._

_Don’t use the key card._

 

Three times, Jensen knocks.

The heavy black door opens to heady, inky darkness. Light from the Strip is blocked out, taken over by the fragile luminescence of a few choice candles.

Immediately, Jensen picks up the alluring scent of worked leather.

His eyes adjust to the lack of illumination. Every sense is heightened as shadows and shade press against increasingly sensitive and responsive skin. The villa is silent and serene—for now.

Five feet away from Jensen, Jared stands, unmoving until Jensen catches up; his movement after creates a new sound. _Click, click, click_. Heels skim over the marble floor, confident, relaxed, and playful. No words are needed for Jensen’s instruction.

Follow.

Through the raven hallway leading to the guest bedroom, Jensen trails after this trim, obsidian-clad figure with a shape so tantalizing, he reaches out to touch the curve of hip.

His hand is met with a firm grasp and a silent warning—do not touch.

Exhilaration courses through Jensen.

He leans against the doorway to the guest room, waiting his turn. He yields control without question, hesitation, or anxiety. He gives himself freely to whatever will happen next, his heart beating elatedly against his chest. For the moment, he is more than content to follow the silhouette of long, shapely legs in midnight leather. The curtains are drawn; light cannot filter in or be let out.

The entire world is here.

A lighter flicks open. Flame appears after a spark, a sliver of sepia cast near Jared’s chest, rising slow to his face.

Kohl dances around Jared’s eyes.

“I believe in you, Steve.” The flame is an inch away from enticing lips that speak these words with command and intensity. “ _I_ believe in Captain America. All that hooey about symbol of liberty, Fighting America—even someone like me could fall for it… I guess… ‘cause we need a Captain America.”

Just one beat.

The lighter snaps shut.

 _Click. Click. Click_.

One gloved hand clasps over Jensen’s shoulder. The other hands him a heavy, silk parcel, tied with a ribbon and a card.

Hazel eyes catch Jensen’s and maintain a look of desire, desperation, lust, and truth all at once.

“ _I_ need a Captain America.”

 _Click. Click. Click_.

One curtain sweeps back, allowing a thin margin of light to pass through, contrast against the shadows.

The Winter Soldier waits.

 

Love pulls their tangles out.

The true point of beginning on Jensen’s body is outlined by fluttering, feathery kisses. Laid down, Jensen closes his eyes. His eyelashes brush over Jared’s lips. This is the start. This is where he drinks Jared in, not just now, but always. The start and end to all of his good days.

He’s never been kissed this way before.

Time matches their pace. Jared conducts the rise and fall of his chest. Slow, peaceful, tranquil now—everything Vegas isn’t. Stretched out beside Jensen, Jared maintains his left hand over Jensen’s heart, settling him down. Kisses press against the crinkles of Jensen’s eyes. He lets out an easy sigh.

Their boots knock, testing their dimensions.

How the idea was born, Jensen doesn’t know. But his suit fits like the second skin it’s supposed to be. Every single detail is crafted with quality, perfectly added. Navy blue, the stealth suit moves with him like muscle, fluid and natural. When kisses shift from his cheek to the edge of his jaw, Jared’s hand slips down to the belt around Jensen’s waist. It’s all here—from the holsters, to the gloves, the boots, and the shield, which rests against the nightstand. All of it, except the mask.

Jensen lays his hand over Jared’s silver left arm.

His mouth waters. Jared slots them into place, tilting their dimensions, pushing the definition of their muscles against each other until his hips rest just below Jensen’s belt.

Stretched out, Jensen tests his boundaries. He pushes his hips up, until the swell of his cock grinds against the pert curve of Jared’s ass. Jared exhales, ragged, relishing the drag over leather. He pushes back, arching his back and slipping his hands into Jensen’s, using him for balance. Leather squeezes over leather. The holster over Jared’s left thigh digs into Jensen’s.

Love curls their tangles back together

He hasn’t even turned Jared over.

Six feet of luscious, lovely, _home_ pins Jensen down.

Jared takes back his right hand and reaches for the holster fastened over his thigh. He pulls out something Jensen is not allowed to see. It’s not for him to know, though he begs to with a careful buck of his hips.

Smiling, Jared unzips a hidden pocket near his heart.

“Whatever you want,” he whispers, as smooth and heady as whiskey, “you’re gonna have to ask for it.”

Fuck.

Words don’t have the opportunity to form in Jensen’s head or leave his lips. Fingers conduct a sweep over his cock, circling the aching outline, skimming over to the zipper. With his left hand now on the flat plane of Jensen’s chest, Jared steadies himself. He tugs at the zipper. He takes his time in the motions after, reaching back, delving into the suit, wrapping his warm, gloved hand around Jensen’s leaking cock.

Leather surrounding his cock causes Jensen to twitch. He fights any other movement, throws away his instinct to push Jared off of him, hold him down, and fuck into him with one long stroke that will burn for days.

He wants to be good.

He wants to be good for Jared.

“Mouth on my chest,” Jared orders, tossing his hair back. His hand squeezes the sensitive base. “Now.”

Jensen does his best. His hands don’t work right. Jared strokes him slow, then fast, then slow again. He can’t focus on the clip to the holster over Jared’s chest. His eyes wander over the line of Jared’s throat, the red star over the silver arm, and the hint of waves in Jared’s hair. Fumbling more than once, he unclasps the holster, unzips the suit, and runs his hands over the pink, tight peaks revealed to him. Jared shudders; his ass grinds down over the tip of Jensen’s cock.

“Suck them.” Leaning forward, Jared moves his hand again, fisting a piece of Jensen’s hair with just enough force to send pleasure straight to the base of his spine. “Make me come.”

He starts with the left nipple, clamping his mouth down, putting good use to the generous swell to his lips. Pressure. Heat. Friction. His tongue nudges at the peak, pushing it up, tracing rough, slick circles. He adds an excess of spit, popping off for a second then going back, sealing his mouth around the nub, biting down just enough to make Jared moan.

Panting, Jensen waits before moving. He rolls his thumb over the flushed, abused left peak, and breathes heavy over the right, teasing, maintaining distance. Jared’s resolve begins to shake—until he lets go of Jensen’s cock and opens another pouch, this time on the holster over his left arm.

“Make me come in the next minute,” Jared growls, his lips against Jensen’s, “or I’m not taking either of these off.”

These?

Cock ring.

And FleshLight.

Jensen’s eyes almost cross. Jared takes a kiss from him, bearing down, jade liner seeping onto Jensen’s bottom lip leaving the hint of a bruise.

One tilt up into the FleshLight, strained against the ring, Jensen breaks.

“Let me fuck you.” He’s begging. “Please, sweetheart, let me fuck you.”

Rubbing the roundest part of his ass over the FleshLight, Jared lets out a soft, ghost of a moan. “What… makes you think… that’ll make me come?”

He can picture it. He can see it so clear in his mind because it’s natural to him now. He’s wired for every thrust into Jared, from the first, burning drag to the desperate, pounding drive that makes Jared scream his name and come all over them.

So he starts to speak these images, fucking up into the FleshLight, begging Jared to please, please give him the chance. Let him open him up with his cock, let him feel the clench and squeeze of that round, firm ass over the thick, twitching shaft.

“Please,” Jensen repeats, his mouth over Jared’s throat. “Please, baby, please.”

Jared seizes. He tenses up. He opens his mouth, arches his back, and shuts his eyes, coming untouched, spilling inside the confines of leather.

Jensen cusses, the pressure of the FleshLight and Jared moving against him cause a profound ache. He takes his chance and draws his right hand out, bringing it down over Jared’s ass once, twice, three times…

“Oh, fuck,” Jared cries out, jumping in his place. “Jen… Jen, do that again.”

“This?” He slaps Jared’s ass and gropes the tender area, making it sting. Jared holds Jensen down by the shoulders and nods, eyes shut still, mouth open. Two more loud, echoing smacks, and Jensen figures it out—Jared has a plug inside him.

“Push it out.” Jensen frames Jared’s ass with both his hands. “Push it out— _now_.”

Control changes.

But not all the way. Jared flips over, onto the bed and on his back, legs spread and chest heaving. He brings Jensen close to him, their mouths meeting in a frenzy. Jensen pulls the FleshLight off, discarding it somewhere. He keeps the ring on, though at Jared’s insistence.

“Wait,” Jared pants, “just wait.” He unbuckles his belt and unzips, hesitant, biting his bottom lip and looking up at Jensen. Now, his voice is completely different than before. It is vulnerable in this moment, shy, and absolutely trusting. “Look.”

Even through darkness as black as crow’s feathers, Jensen can see the criss coss of silver over Jared’s thighs. This is the ace up his sleeve—stockings.

Beautifully made, intricate silver stockings.

Jensen regains his breath only to give one command and one command only.

“Hold onto the headboard.”

He turns Jared over, flips him onto his stomach, and pulls down the bottom portion of the suit, fixing it over the tender place where Jared’s thighs meet his ass. He catches the first sight of the plug, buried inside Jared, an unwelcome intruder. With care, Jensen removes it, rubbing the small of Jared’s back, feeling Jared work to push it out with him. It takes a good two minutes for the plug to pop out, but once it does, something dark in Jensen’s chest lets go. He doesn’t want to see it again. He pitches it off the bed, where it lands with a thud, and begins the consequences of seeing anything but his cock inside Jared. His marks over Jared’s ass are fading, but he replaces them, bringing his hand down in five firm slaps, making the pert globes bounce, tinged pink and red by the end.

Every slap receives a moan, a cry, or a jolt of pleasure.

Words escape. Jensen pats Jared down and finds another pouch on the holster over his right shoulder. Inside, he finds lube.

His cock nudges once against Jared’s ass. The ring has made his cock flush a deeper shade of red, bloated so it looks larger in his hand as he slicks up. The nudge is both a warning and an opportunity. They can turn back.

Jared spreads his legs open. His pink, sloppy hole gapes open, ready and begging.

Control shifts once more. Jared relaxes, yielding completely, trusting and sweet.

Jensen pushes inside him, mounting him from behind, driving in at an angle that makes them both gasp. The pressure, the burn, and the primitive hunger of it all pushes against the seams of their being. Inch by inch, Jensen sinks into pulsing, clenching heat. He watches his cock disappear deep between each generous globe.

Their hips fused, Jensen shoves Jared’s pants down further, revealing more of the stockings that glimmer even from the lack of light.

He fucks Jared hard enough that everything from the headboard to the boots they’re wearing shake.

He drives inside Jared with long, punishing strokes, pounding against but not on the desired bundle of nerves. He’s not done with Jared. He’s going to take his time, just like Jared did.

Quality is part of the fourteen thousand dollars Jensen paid to stay here this weekend. But even the bed threatens to give way once their rhythm settles. In. Out. In. Out. Jensen pulls out completely on every other stroke, and slams back in, leaving them both breathless, sweaty messes.

When the pressure builds in Jensen’s hips, and his cock pulses against the ring, he redirects the force of his thrusts. On the first thrust, Jared screams. His moans and cries join the rattle of the headboard and the squeak of the mattress. Faster, impossibly harder, Jensen works them both.

He pushes Jared’s hips into the bed, fucking him into the mattress, allowing Jared to catch friction against his cock while Jensen pounds from behind. Any resistance that Jared had is gone. He goes liquid until Jensen swivels his hips and gives one, two, three, four, five short, sharp thrusts against his prostate.

And then, Jared is gone.

He comes over Jensen’s cock twice in a row, crying, moaning, and begging.

It’s one last coherent thought that pushes Jensen over the edge.

This never has to end.

Gripping Jared’s hips with his left hand, Jensen fumbles with the ring. He yanks it off, tilts their hips, and pushes inside as deep as he can. With the bloated head of his cock pressed against Jared’s prostate, he comes, twitching, spilling hot, thick ropes of come that seemingly have no end. Every muscle in his body winds up and releases as he fills Jared up.

Somehow, Jensen has enough thought to pull out in the last few seconds of his orgasm.

He’d never forgive himself if he didn’t do this.

The last of his faculty is spent milking out three last ropes of come, striping over Jared’s ass and the stockings. His eyes flutter, but he catches the moment come begins to leak from Jared’s hole, pushing out, dripping down onto leather and the bed.

Few things are more satisfying to Jensen than seeing this.

He slips his fingers into the tender hole. Jared’s breathing is erratic, but he gives a small moan. His hips also give a twitch, which Jensen reads. There is nothing sexual about his fingers now. He checks for tears, there are none. He soothes the sore muscle and slips out, rubbing Jared’s thighs and ass.

After a minute of their breathing filling the room, Jared starts to move.

“Don’t,” Jensen coos, scooting over to the edge of the bed. “Stay there, sweetheart.”

“I’m hot.” Jared huffs into the pillow he’s been clinging to. “This thing is a million degrees and I’m sweatin’ like a sinner in church.”

Whenever he can figure out how to walk again, Jensen will need to grab lotion from his carry-on, wherever that is, a stack of hand towels from the bathroom, and a few bottles of water. Later on, he’ll attempt to carry Jared over to the tub, but they’ll both end up stumbling together, and after a quick shower, they’ll sleep in the guestroom, too tired to even think about walking upstairs.

In Vegas, the land of casinos and all-night activities, they’ll fall asleep to Return of the King off of Jared’s Amazon account, played on the television in this room.

What the hell, maybe tomorrow, Jensen will wake Jared up to, “Sk8er Boi.”

And ask him where the hell he got these suits.

For now, he’s pretty happy being a sticky, sweaty, sore mess.

**Author's Note:**

> PHEW. 
> 
> good lord. 
> 
> this lovely fic is for J.
> 
> now, i need to go and walk this off.


End file.
